


Raise a little Hell

by lemonlovely



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Explicit Language, Ficlet, Fluff, Harringrove Holiday Exchange, Kinda, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Pre-Slash, Slice of Life, bored boys in detention, breakfast club vibez, detention shenanigans, for Ihni, oral fixation! Billy, ready to get into some trouble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 23:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22006501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonlovely/pseuds/lemonlovely
Summary: THUD!went the pencil, slamming into the ceiling again.  It trembled there for a moment, unsure if it wanted to obey gravity or stay – then immediately dropped back down.Billy caught it flawlessly in midair, before it could hit the desk. He drew his arm back, aimed, and flung it back at the tiled ceiling with angled precision.THUD!went the pencil, and then down it went.There were exactly twenty two identical holes in the ceiling from the sharp, graphite pencil tip of the yellow #2 pencil - Steve’d counted.THUD!Twentythree.“Jesus FUCKING Christ.” Steve finally snapped. “Can you cut it out already?!”
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 9
Kudos: 171
Collections: Harringrove Holiday Exchange 2019





	Raise a little Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ihni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihni/gifts).



_THUD!_ went the pencil, slamming into the ceiling again. It trembled there for a moment, unsure if it wanted to obey gravity or stay – then immediately dropped back down. 

Billy caught it flawlessly in midair, before it could hit the desk. He drew his arm back, aimed, and flung it back at the tiled ceiling with angled precision. 

_THUD!_ went the pencil, and then down it went. 

There were exactly twenty two identical holes in the ceiling from the sharp, graphite pencil tip of the yellow #2 pencil - Steve’d counted.

 _THUD!_ Twenty _three._

“Jesus FUCKING Christ.” Steve finally snapped. “Can you cut it out already?!” 

Billy Hargrove was sprawled out at his desk, his legs flung out wide, big black boots on the worn old carpeting, holes in the knees of his painted on denim Levis, and a half undone, navy, paisley blue button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A crisp, white wife beater on underneath. 

He had his shades pulled down over those striking blue eyes, despite the fact that they were indoors – still stuck in school, actually, thanks to SOMEBODY. And that somebody wasn’t Steve. The blonde slowly tilted his head to the side in this droll, lazy sort of motion to glance Steve’s way, just out of the corner of his eye – though Steve couldn’t see his eyes, not really. Just the dull reflection of the Mathematics room in the lenses of those deep, amber brown aviators. He fiddled with the #2 pencil, the one he always used, with a chewed up eraser, and teeth marks in the yellow wood.

“You got a complaint you wanna file, Harrington?”

“Maybe I do.”

“Tough fuckin’ shit.”

“Seriously it’s bad enough being stuck here, without you throwing that freakin' pencil around! It’s not exactly darts.”

“I _like_ darts.”

“Well that’s great ‘n all but maybe you could, I dunno, play them on your own time – when you’re not here, bugging the shit out of me.”

 _THUD!_ went the pencil. Twenty four. 

Steve was going to SCREAM. How could he be so ANNOYING? 

“Ain’t my fault we ended up in detention.”

“Uh, are you serious? You’re the EXACT reason we ended up here” 

Billy didn’t look at him. Just tipped his head back a little farther, tracking the motion of the pencil lodged in the ceiling tile, mouth set into a flat line, until it finally wobbled and dropped. He snatched it from midair with an almost super-human speed, like a reflex. Steve wondered if he was on coke or something. One of those drugs that made you hyper alert and focused. He didn’t LOOK that focused though. He almost looked like he could be asleep. 

“You got in my way.”

“Yeah, no, I was just _walking_ in the _hall._ How is that in your way? There’s four or five feet of space on either other side, you could have just walked AROUND me.”

“But you were in my WAY.”

Steve sighed and folded his arms more tightly across his chest, leaning his head back as his entire body seemed to tense, compacting in on itself as he hunched, jaw winding up, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Eyes screwing shut like he could somehow block Billy out, knee bouncing fast out of irritation. He was such a CHILD.

 _THUD!_ Twenty five.

Just ignore it. It’s fine. 

_THUD!_ Twenty six.

He’s just a fucking asshole, he’s trying to get a rise out of you. 

_THUD!_ Twenty seven.

How can anyone STAND him?!

 _THUD!_ Twenty eight.

“OH MY GOD!” Steve burst out, eyes snapping open, a furious little pout on his face.

Billy cackled like a fucking hyena and caught the pencil as it plummeted back down. He stood up, chair shoved back, to saunter over to the electric brown Panasonic pencil sharpener – clearly the ceiling had dulled the lead, and he needed a razor sharp tip for it to pierce the tile properly. He stuck the yellow, wooden pencil into the sharpener as it started to make a high pitched grinding sound. Steve glared at him, because that was annoying TOO.

Finally, Billy pulled it out, the sharpener going silent, and blew coiled shavings off the tip, glancing over at Steve, waggling his tongue like a real fuckin’ prick. Then he bit down on the pencil between his teeth like a dog with a bone. He was always wagging his tongue at Steve like that, couldn’t keep it in his _mouth_ – only at Steve, Nancy’d pointed out, only ever at Steve – and he still hadn’t really figured out what that MEANT.

Was that California speak for ‘I hate you?’ or ‘fuck you,’ or what? It had to be a California thing. People did weird stuff out there – everybody knew that. In Indiana, people knew how to keep their tongues to themselves, thank you very much.

Steve scowled at him across the room, tracking Billy’s slow, almost timed out progress back to his desk. The way he threw himself back into his seat almost lazily, legs flung out into the aisle, those monster boots crossed at the ankle as he pulled the gross, spitty pencil from his mouth, drew his arm back and – 

“I swear man if you throw that thing again – “ Steve started. 

"You're gonna do _what_?" Billy grinned at him, clearly entertained by this new game he’d found. The pencil end gleamed, sharp as a darts point now, for real. 

_THUD!_ The ceiling tile was riddled with holes, as pockmarked as a block of swiss. 

Steve stood up so fast, so annoyed, that his chair nearly fell over. He was driving him CRAZY. 

“That’s it! That’s it, oh my god I can’t be in here anymore – “

“Then let’s get _out_ of here. Jesus, been waitin’ for you to get your ass up.”

Steve stared at the source of his ultimate annoyance the past hour or so since the bell rang for school to let out, uncomprehending, brow wrinkling like a confused pug as he tried to understand. This definitely did NOT compute, like Dustin would say.

“What d’you mean, get out of here?”

“I mean let’s blow this pop stand, what else?”

“Well that’s kind of the point of detention. We aren’t really allowed to leave?”

Billy’s tongue peeked out of his mouth, just barely held between the sharp white lines of his teeth. “You always do what you’re told, pretty boy?

“Well – I mean generally, yeah, it’s not like – “

“ Just let that fancy hair down a little. Can see you itchin' for it. You're wound so fuckin' tight, you know that?” 

Steve wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw the ghost of a wink behind the veil of Billy’s shades. He impulsively lifted a hand to touch at the perfect coif of his hair, fluffed up and swept back, like a hair of it might have been out of place. He didn’t let his hair down, ever, and that didn't mean he was wound too tight. But Billy thought it was fancy?

“Why would I go anywhere with you? We’re just gonna get in more trouble.” Steve sat down again promptly, like he had to support his words with an action. Like he was making a point.

Billy drew his legs in to stand up from his seat, making the wood groan with the weight of his compact, muscular frame, a lopsided, dangerous smile that – for Billy, might count as ‘mischievousness’ – that _crazy,_ sort of _mad_ smile that he got, one that Steve was particularly familiar with. One he’d seen up close and personal, after Steve had gotten up in his face, taken the first swing. It'd made those blue – impossibly blue eyes of his, jump. 

“C’mon, Harrington. What’ve you got to lose?”

“I dunno, the next few months of my life to detention and possible summer school?” Steve sighed drolly. “I wouldn’t go anywhere with _you_ even if I wasn’t stuck in here.” 

“Aw now see that’s a real shame, ‘cause I’m _real_ fond of you. What, you don’t wanna be _pals?”_

“No. I don’t think I do.”

Billy slid the newly-sharpened, chewed up, #2 pencil back behind his ear, as if in any sort of universe he might have been _studious_. It drew Steve's attention to the dangle of his spiked earring below it, before Billy drew his gaze again. 

He had that same wicked sort of expression, with a curious curl to the corner of that sharp, pink mouth that made something in Steve want to start backing up. The part in him that had grown cautious after being knocked concussed with a plate to the head, some primal hind-part of his brain that told him not to ignore any warning signs. Not from Billy Hargrove – he’d done that once before, and it hadn’t ended well for him. And that look? It seemed dangerous.

“Breakin' my heart, Harrington. What’ve you got to be doin’ that’s so much more important than this, huh?”

“I was supposed to pick up Dustin. You _know_ that. I always pick him up at the same time as you pick up Max, but now we’re both stuck here.”

The easy curl to Billy’s mouth immediately lowered at that, the corners of his mouth digging into his cheeks instead of a sudden flash of – Steve didn’t know that look. Something like anger, or maybe even the faintest flicker of fear, before it was smothered like a flare of flame.

“Of course I fuckin’ know that. But the little shitbird has her board, she can skate home, and that curly-headed little shit can figure something else out, too. That old bitch Mundy already called our folks, can’t exactly head back. So we go somewhere else.”

“Not mine.”

“Whaddya mean, not yours?”

Steve frowned at him. “My parents aren’t home. They’re at a conference in New York.”

“Well what the fuck? Why you still here, then? Could just go to your place.”

“They check up on you in detention, don’t they?” 

Billy stared. “When’s the last time you had detention?”

“I dunno. A while? Over a year, I guess. Since before I started dating Nancy.”

“What? After Lil’ Miss Priss put you on the ‘right track’ ‘n all? Guess that’d be right around when you turned bitch, am I right?”

Steve shrugged. Billy made a mean-spirited sort of laugh, like broken glass from the back of his throat, that didn’t really sound like a laugh – it never did with him. It was never happy - just the opposite, really. It made him sound angry, or sad, or both. 

“Well news flash, Mundy don’t check in on anybody. Supposed to, doesn’t mean he does. He’ll never know we’re gone.”

The thing was, Steve didn’t think he _believed_ Billy. He kind of thought that Billy might do just about anything to fuck Steve over – he’d done it before, and he’d do it again. Billy was the reason he was in here in the first place, Steve hadn’t even started it, it was totally unfair he was even in here in the first place. 

“And you know that becaaaause – what? You’re in here all the time?” 

Billy shrugged, like a sarcastic mirror of Steve from before. He reached behind himself to pull out a crushed pack of smokes from the rear pocket of his Levis – Steve didn’t know how anything could possibly fit in any of his pockets, and tamped at the end to pull out a cig. 

Steve scoffed, glancing up at the ceiling pointedly, where a smoke detector steadily blinked away with a little red light, indicating it was fully functioning and ready to set off an alarm at the faintest hint of smoke. Steve pointed at it like Billy had to be some kind of stupid.

Billy gave him a toothy smile that bordered on egotistical, and more than a little maniacal, running a tongue over a carnivorous canine as he promptly stepped up onto the nearest chair in those big black boots. From there, up onto the desk itself, denim legs spread wide as he reached up to snatch at the belly of the smoke-detector to pull it from its moors. The red light stopped blinking. 

Steve sat stock still in his seat – he was sitting in the chair directly across from Billy’s dick – just about a head higher, and about two feet in front of him. Billy stared down at him from where he’d reached up to fuck with the smoke detector, where half of his tucked in, paisley patterned button-up, half undone, had come un-tucked, rucking up around his stomach – showing off a bit of golden, sun-kissed skin, even in April. 

There was a faint dusting of fine, blonde hair there, disappearing south into the waistband of his ripped jeans. His leather jacket was still slung across his seat, halfway across the room, beneath the newly decorated ceiling tile. 

Steve swallowed sharply as he realized Billy had caught him looking, glancing away guiltily as a sudden crimson flush rose up over his cheeks, staining them – he tried to look at anything, anywhere else, than Billy Hargrove displayed in front of him. Billy’s boots clomped back down onto the seat before they hit the floor, making the desks shake with the impact. Then he dropped down to straddle the seat in front of Steve’s own, lounging there backwards, leaning in over Steve’s desk as he slid the Marlboro between his lips. His knee was bouncing fast, led by the toe of his boot, an anxious motion.

But he was grinning, canines glinting, and it was clear he'd seen the way Steve'd _looked_ at him - and something about that, something about it seemed to delight him. Like he wanted it, wanted more of Steve's eyes on him, and Steve knew it was just because he liked the attention - the guy ate it up, the way it probably gave his ego a good stroke. Steve could practically watch it grow. 

“Got a light?” He asked, flashing bright ivory teeth around the unlit cigarette, which bobbed with each word. He still had those aviators on, and all Steve could see was the frown of his own reflection staring back at him. 

Steve scowled at him, so his reflection scowled back – he knew really damn well that Billy had his own zippo, he used it all the time – it had some kind of an etching on it, but Steve’d never been close enough to see what of. He let out a low, tortured sigh through his nose, then dug around in his pocket until he pulled out his new silver zippo – the one he’d replaced since last fall. 

This one was still shiny and nice, barely touched, since he hadn’t been smoking nearly so much. Only late at night, when the nightmares got too bad, usually out by the pool, watching the reflection of the lit up, heated water – because his parents kept it filled, even in winter or spring, even when they weren’t around to enjoy it. Not like anybody should be enjoying it at all. 

He snapped it open with a flick of his thumb, the flame flaring up all flickering orange as Billy leaned in over the back of his seat, lifting two fingers to brace the body of the cigarette between them. That steadied it enough, just as he stole the flame from the zippo, puffing at the filter until he got the cherry going – as burning and red as a bullseye. His lips peeled back from his teeth in something like satisfaction as he let the smoke trail from the opposite corner of his mouth like fog. 

He was so _close_ to Steve. Just the zippo held between them, before Steve snapped it closed again. Hid it away. This close, he could really smell Billy - that combination of nicotine and tar on his tongue, the rich, spicy cologne he seemed to bathe in daily, the musky scent of his sweat, and something clean and minty - like gum, maybe? And a few subtler notes Steve couldn't place - something like cinnamon, and smoke, which had nothing to do with the cigarette burning away. 

“Thought you used to rule the school, huh King Steve? Now what? Can’t even get in a lil’ trouble? That bitch really did a number on you, didn’t she? She cut off your balls, too?” 

“Fuck you, Jesus. I’m just - sick of getting in trouble…” Steve bit out, looking away as he rubbed his thumb over the shiny silver of his zippo, fists curled loosely against the desk. Close to where Billy’s elbows were braced on the outer edges of the wood, names and doodles and hearts with arrows through them carved into the surface, making it bumpy with the engravings. 

He really was sick of it. 

He just wanted to live a normal fucking life and go back to his normal fucking house and never have to hear another word about any kind of trouble, paranormal or otherwise. It wasn't like once upon a time, when Steve used to get high off the thrill of it - walking more and more dangerous paths to try and get his father's attention, get him to look up, get him to notice, whether it was for something good or bad. At least when it was bad, it was incentive enough for his parents to actually show up.

But once Barb had died...that had been too much. His parents had come home, alright. But a girl was dead, and it had been Steve's fault - Nancy had told him just as much. Steve's fault. Steve's fault. Steve's fault - and, and he'd never really thought of it that way, _tried_ not to, but - 

His gaze drifted back to Billy from where he’d been zoning out, studying the board, which slid in and out of focus. There were a variety of different algebraic equations scrawled out in pale, ivory chalk on the plain green board. Steve thought it looked like some kind of an alien language. He couldn’t look at it for long without it hurting his eyes, made his head ache, so he looked at Billy instead – who, unfortunately, was never bad to look at. Even when he was a total asshole. The lead tip and yellow bit of the pencil just peeked out past his curls and the shell of his ear. 

Billy was watching him with this rapt sort of attention, like a hawk inspecting the frightened scurry of a mouse. Tracking his movements behind those aviators - from the way Steve chewed at the inside of his cheek, to the way his eyes had drifted out of focus. _Steve's fault. Trouble._ Just a little bit of trouble. 

But maybe with Billy? 'Trouble' might be different - not the same kind that Steve'd been chasing after for so long, or the kind that he'd eventually found. Maybe it would be more of a distraction, than a way to attract attention he could never seem to get. The kind he'd wound up with. And maybe - Steve needed a distraction from words like 'fault,' or 'blame.' Or 'death.' 

Speaking of trouble - it seemed impossible, somehow, the sight of Billy smoking in the middle of the classroom – a sight that didn’t fit, though he’d seen Billy smoking in the bathroom plenty of times with some of the guys, including Tommy H., just like Steve used to do. Stuffing the butts into the sink drains until they were too clogged to actually drain any water, and blowing smoke out the cracked, white window with the peeling paint.

But Billy hadn’t even opened a window in here – just assaulted the smoke detector. Mr. Mundy was gonna blow a blood vessel if he saw it.

Billy folded his arms against the top of the desk as he leaned in even closer to Steve, the smoke hanging from his lips, eyes invisible behind the amber cover of his mirrored, opaque shades. But Steve could still see the way his dark brows arched up, before he rubbed his callused thumb over where Steve'd carved his name into his desk in Sophomore year.

“You just haven’t had the right kind of trouble.”

Steve stared back at him, entirely unimpressed, arms still folded defensively over his chest, tucked there like wings – although he wasn’t quite as annoyed anymore, now that Billy wasn’t annoying him on _purpose_. Even if it stirred something in his chest - poked at the bank of interest that had been slowly building - the slow and aware desire to be _distracted_. Like maybe Billy could give him that. 

“And you’re, what? The right kind of trouble?” Steve asked, voice dry, but tentatively searching. 

“You bet your ass I am.” 

Distraction. Trouble. Just not the same kind. The kind they had in California, not Hawkins - nothing like Hawkins, where trouble meant getting dragged into swimming pools, or underground tunnels, or bipedal, petal faced fuckers with rows of sharks teeth. Because that's exactly what Steve had found - the wrong kind of trouble. But this? 

This could be a _new_ kind of trouble. One named 'Billy Hargrove.'

Steve studied the blonde California boy in front of him for a long moment, the way the smoke trailed from his cigarette, as he finally tilted his shades up to perch them atop his lions mane of curls. Those wicked, pale blue eyes were sparkling at him, a smile playing around the edges of his mouth as he licked over his teeth, like an invitation for Steve to take him up on it. To get in a little trouble, to raise a little Hell. 

“C’mon pretty boy. Live a little. Y’ know you want to. Or we could always just play _darts_." Those intense blue eyes searched Steve's face, as if seeking out a weak point "What, don't tell me you're _scared_?” Billy added softly, like he knew the effect that question would have.

Steve's nostrils flared, eyes widening by a hairsbreadth. He wasn't scared of ANYTHING. 

Billy just smiled real slow, like a cat that caught the mouse - because in that moment, he knew. Knew he'd _won._

***

Steve didn’t know what did it, in the end – if it was the threat of that pencil hitting the ceiling tile one more fucking time, ( _anything_ but that), or if it was the way Billy'd asked him if he was scared. Steve wasn't chicken. Or maybe, it was more than that - something in the way he'd had looked at him, like he needed Steve to go with him in some secret way. Like maybe Billy wanted to do anything but go home, but he couldn't stay there, either. Maybe it was really just the pull of curiosity over exactly what Billy might have in mind - what 'trouble' might really entail. 

'cause yeah, maybe it was that exact tug for trouble that used to pull at Steve in the days, months, years, before he’d started dating Nancy. That feeling of wanting to raise a little Hell. Just in a different way - a way that Billy seemed to dangle in front of him, this tantalizing unknown that Steve wanted to explore - hungry and aching for any kind of distraction in a way he'd never be able to describe, not to anyone, least of all himself. But he knew, in this sure kind of way - right in the center of his chest, that he needed it. Needed to run - in any way that Billy, of all people, was offering him. It was tempting in a way that shocked him with the enormity of it.

Ditching detention wasn’t on Steve’s to-do list today, but he found himself following Billy Hargrove down the lonesome, empty hallway of Hawkins High after hours. Deserted, not a soul in sight but them. The school had that surreal sort of feeling to it when you could just feel how empty it was, as if it had been abandoned, and they were somehow the only two souls left on earth. Steve had his grey backpack slung over his shoulder, Billy with his dark brown messenger bag clutched in his hand as they headed for the doors of the school.

Adrenaline ran high through Steve's veins, making his heart give an excited thrum in his chest as he glanced over his shoulder, like Mr. Mundy might be running after them, spitting and furious, but it was just as still and silent as before.

He laughed a little at their clean get-away, trotting a bit, all long-legged to catch up with Billy, who was still smoking his cigarette in the middle of school, nearly burnt down to the filter. Cackling and throwing his head back as Steve came to walk side by side with him - those sandy locks spilling over his shoulders, thrown beautifully into profile. 

For a second, he thought he could hear yelling in the distance, echoing down the hallways in a spiral of sound.

Billy smirked and handed a fresh smoke to Steve, murmuring _'Welcome back, King Steve.'_ And Steve? Couldn't help but smile back, as they picked up the pace. Laughter bubbling out of him in a startled spring.

They were making a run for it. To raise a little Hell.

**Author's Note:**

> ♥♥♥ Happy Holidays! Sorry it's a bit belated. Hope this brightens your day - you're a gift and treasure to the entire fandom with all that you do ♥♥♥ 
> 
> \- Thank you so much to @botanicapoetica for helping me look it over! ♥♥♥ You're a gem
> 
> -Raise a little Hell, by Trooper


End file.
